The flute torture is over. Your mother leaves her pew and walks up the steps to the mic. She turns to me. Extends her hand. Silence. The whole world is looking at me. Silence. The world holds its breath. Silence. Your mother standing at the mic. Nothing is more silent than someone standing silent at a mic. I should join her. I should tell the world who we were to one another, one with the other, one without the other.
Beat.
I turn around. And I, the boy-widow, leave the church.
FRANCIS bursts in, angrily.
FRANCIS
You didn’t say a thing. Why didn’t you say something? Why?
I told you to invent something beautiful.
TOM
You’re not going to hit me!
FRANCIS
Why did you leave my mother up there all alone in front of everyone?
TOM
You’re not going to hit me!
FRANCIS
I can’t stand seeing her like that. I can’t.
FRANCIS punches TOM in the stomach.
TOM
The trout. I couldn’t digest the trout from last night.
FRANCIS
Answer me! And I said, no cologne!
TOM
(raising his arms to protect himself) A reflex. An old reflex. I react like a terrified puppy.
FRANCIS
I’ve heard your voice before. One day, on the phone. I called him about some paperwork for the farm. “I’m expecting him home for supper. Can I take a message? Can he call you later this evening? We’re leaving on vacation tonight, for Ajaccio …”
TOM
“… in Corsica.”
FRANCIS
“Ajaccio in Corsica … Who’s calling? … Hello?”
TOM
“Who’s calling? Hello? … Hello? …”
FRANCIS
One day I looked under his bed. There were these sketchbooks. Drawings of men. Poems about men, too. When I called your place … “Can he call you later this evening?” I knew you’d show up someday.
AGATHA enters. She’s carrying a big, yellow plastic bowl.
FRANCIS
You want to sit down?
TOM
She’s holding a huge yellow bowl! Too yellow for this place.
AGATHA
I could tell that something was wrong, Tom.
FRANCIS
He felt sick to his stomach because of the trout.
AGATHA
I wanted to hear what you prepared.
TOM
It was just an outline, a rough draft.
AGATHA
It must have been …
TOM
Unsettling? Gloomy? Sad?
AGATHA
Touching.
TOM
At the agency, people call me “Mr. Synonym.” I look for equivalents. The thing that is like the thing, but not really the thing. It’s an obsession. They really appreciate it in the focus-group meetings.
Beat.
A focus group is … The idea of explaining a focus group to them makes me want to throw up more than the breaded trout.
AGATHA
The flute music was nice.
FRANCIS
Yes.
AGATHA
It was Jeff’s niece.
FRANCIS
Yes.
AGATHA
Someday she’ll be talented. They’re waiting for us at the community hall. I’m really sorry about the trout, Tom.
TOM
I’ll get over it.
AGATHA
I made too much pasta salad. I’ve always hated pasta salad. It’s ugly. It’s pale. Unappetizing. You have to chill it, and cold pasta is tasteless. People always make too much. And you can’t freeze it. But you look like you’ve got no sense of hospitality if there’s no goddamn big pasta salad in the middle of the buffet.
She bursts into tears.
Yes, I said “goddamn.” Today. I’ve got the right. Just one “goddamn.” You can try showing up with a nice green salad and unusual fish sandwiches. Good luck! They’ll all say you should’ve made your pasta salad. Mayonnaise and macaroni! My family says I make the best pasta salad in the world. I’m the best in the world at something I hate doing.
FRANCIS
You should sit down.
AGATHA
(still holding the yellow bowl) Why? Does it hurt less when you’re sitting? She should’ve been there.
FRANCIS
She’s heartless. That’s all there is to it, right, Tom?
TOM
That’s right. She’s heartless.
AGATHA
Just now, when they were bringing the coffin out of the church, a shoe on the ice. I imagined a shoe slipping on the ice, on one of the church steps. I imagined the shoe bringing one of the pallbearers down, one pallbearer, then another and another … and then the coffin! It slid and tipped over. I screamed. Everyone screamed. In one second, we heard the Lord’s name more times than during the whole ceremony. Two of the pallbearers turned the coffin over. I imagined the coffin open. The lid had come unhinged. Nothing! Nothing in the coffin! I heard myself saying: “Where is his body? Where is it?” And the head pallbearer saying: “You were there, ma’am, when we closed the coffin. He was inside.” And a cousin or an uncle, or someone with a moustache, pushing the head pallbearer and shouting: “You save money on bodies that are too messed up to be exposed? You get rid of the body, then you reuse the box.” And the pallbearer answering: “Our establishment is one of the most reputable. We share the family’s grief.” All the sentences I had read in their brochure.
Beat.
When they put the coffin back in the hearse, snow began to fall. Light snow, every crystal was identical. On the ground where the coffin had fallen, footprints appeared in the snow, prints of bare feet. They led me to you, Tom.
Beat.
“He had been dead for several days and those who were mourning went to his grave, but it was empty. There were footprints in the sand. He had been resurrected, but no one recognized him!” That was the story the priest had just told in his sermon.
FRANCIS
Amen, Mum. Amen.
AGATHA
I’m so glad that you’re here, Tom.
FRANCIS
Tom, shouldn’t you tell her that she called?
TOM
Who?
AGATHA
Who called?
FRANCIS
Tell her. Make her happy. Now.
TOM
(improvising) When I got back from the church, the phone kept ringing. I finally answered.
Beat.
It was her.
AGATHA
Her? Who her?
FRANCIS
Nathalie! Nice surprise, eh?
AGATHA
What did she say?
FRANCIS
(impatiently, to TOM) I can’t answer for you. You’re the one who answered the phone, Tom. (to AGATHA) I don’t know what they said to each other. When I got back from the church, he was just hanging up. (to TOM) You must remember what she said?
TOM
(improvising) Hello, Tom! This is Nathalie.
FRANCIS
In French!
TOM
Bonjour, Tom. C’est Nathalie à l’appareil. Ça fait plaisir de t’entendre.
FRANCIS
We don’t speak French.
AGATHA
Francis! Shut up!
TOM
Aujourd’hui, une partie de moi meurt. Part of me died today. Et j’arrive pas à pleurer. And I can’t cry. I don’t know the words for sadness. Vide, solitude, colère … Emptiness, loneliness, anger, anger and more anger! Tell them I would have liked to meet them. He always said love was between two people. No friends. No family. Tom, tell them he was the first, le premier. The one who proves it can exist. Tell them that he loved my face when I smiled. Tell them that he did everything to make me smile. Speak to them about his arms, too. His arms that held me prisoner, th
en released me, then sentenced me again and again. Tell them that sometimes, just from the way he walked, I could see that he was horny and that our lovemaking would be wild.
FRANCIS
And she hung up?
TOM
Does “horny” come from horns?
FRANCIS
And she hung up?
TOM
Dis-leur que je le déteste. Tell them that I hate him for abandoning me. He wasn’t really late. He had just picked up his jacket at the dry cleaner’s. That was no reason for going too fast. I can hear the ambulance sirens. Two blocks away from the agency. Then the phone call. It happened at the corner of Second Avenue at the big intersection. I race down the stairs. Corner of Second Avenue at the big intersection. The ambulance disappearing in the distance. The zigzag marks on the pavement, like a signature on a contract with death. A gas tank. Half a wheel. Shattered mirror. His torn jacket. His cracked helmet. His blood spilled, poured, sprayed, spurted.
Beat.
AGATHA
I’ll sit down.
FRANCIS
And she hung up?
TOM
That’s right. She hung up.
AGATHA
That made it seem like she was with us. Thank you, Tom.
FRANCIS pours TOM a drink.
FRANCIS
Quite the long-distance call.
AGATHA
She should have been here. She should have said those things.
FRANCIS
“Horny lovemaking” in church?
AGATHA
At least someone would have said something.
They are all lost in their own thoughts.
After the reception, we mustn’t forget the milking. Francis will show you how, Tom.
TOM
Francis will show me what?
FRANCIS
I’ll find you some clothes for the cows. You can’t work in the barn in your fancy-boy clothes.
AGATHA
You’ll lend him some of your brother’s clothes. (to TOM) Francis will show you how to connect the milking machines.
+ TABLEAU FOUR +
At dusk. A dog is barking in the distance. TOM changes into his dead lover’s work clothes.
In the cornfield.
TOM
Your clothes are too big for me. Too recent to be vintage, too old to be Paul Smith. Not enough holes in your belt. I’ve always been too slim. I’ll use a rope, start a new trend. (to FRANCIS) Are we going much farther? I went to all the best schools and I have shit on the soles of my boots.
FRANCIS
You really impressed me back there.
TOM
You gave me no choice, I had to lie.
FRANCIS
I’m talking about the cows. You’re gentle with animals. I even saw you pat one.
TOM
(searching for something to say) I didn’t realize milking machines could be so modern.
FRANCIS
They even have laser jobs these days. They make it a lot less work. The machine finds the udder by itself. You have this control board. You just press the right button and the machine fits onto the teats by itself.
TOM
(not sure how to react) Cool!
FRANCIS
You hear the dog barking? That means there’s lots of coyotes over there. During those guided tours of the farms, there were lots of Japanese who came all the way out here. They travelled halfway round the world to take pictures. That must mean it was beautiful here. There’s too much corn if you ask me. People selling their land just for corn. And pig farms. Almost all the farmhouses and the barns have been abandoned. Look around, all the houses on this road are empty.
TOM
You don’t have any neighbours?
FRANCIS
No.
TOM
(disconcerted) That’s reassuring!
FRANCIS
They’ve got little eyes, the Japanese, and when they laugh, they don’t have any. Once, I brought a couple out to the cow ditch. They wanted to see coyotes. They were lucky, they saw three. White teeth in purple flesh. They look at each other, out of the corner of their eyes, growling. “You touch my piece, I’ll kill you.” Farther off, there was one playing with a hare, not quite dead. He kept batting it with his paw, trying to get it to move. The hare would try to escape. The coyote would catch it, rough it up, let it go, catch it again.
TOM
How come nobody talks to you? This afternoon at the community hall, nobody came to see you. You’re the brother of the deceased.
FRANCIS
I don’t give a damn about other people. I guess they don’t give a damn about me.
Beat.
You know any?
TOM
What?
FRANCIS
Japanese!
TOM
I attended a workshop on the semiology of images in Nagoya.
FRANCIS
(searching for something to say) Cool. I thought you were really good back there.
TOM
I like animals.
FRANCIS
No. I’m talking about Nathalie.
TOM
(exasperated) Honestly.
FRANCIS
You did the right thing.
TOM
I don’t think so.
FRANCIS
Mum was really happy.
TOM
I don’t think so.
FRANCIS
I told my brother, I won’t say a thing to Mum about your little secret, but you have to give me a picture of you with a girl. Any girl, as long as she’s pretty. We called her “Nathalie.” But I think her real name is Sara. They worked together.
TOM
Sara?
FRANCIS
Yeah.
TOM
The stylist at the agency?
FRANCIS
He’s got his arm around her waist in the picture.
TOM
The alcoholic motormouth? The one who can’t tell mouthwash from liqueur?
FRANCIS
They’re sitting on his motorcycle. She’s wearing a pink baseball cap.
TOM
By the end of the evening, she’ll drink up everything, even what’s left in the urinals.
FRANCIS
Mum thinks she’s beautiful.
TOM
(increasingly angry) Pissed, she’s got bug eyes! Pissed, she adds two syllables to every word. She can’t speak a word of French. She couldn’t even pronounce “Nathalie.” A real Schumacher on the Xerox machine, copies everything she finds, faster than the speed of light. And she finds everything “artistic,” more proof that she’s got no taste. Entire forests are being clear-cut to support her photocopy addiction. Sara! That’s ridiculous.
FRANCIS
(taking a photo out of his pocket, handing it to TOM) They’re kissing.
TOM
What a stupid idea, staying here. Pathetic, nauseating idea. I’m going home.
FRANCIS
Where are you going?
TOM
I’m going home. I’m telling your mother the truth and I’m out of here!
FRANCIS
(catching TOM by the rope he’s using as a belt) You’re not telling my mother anything.
TOM
Let go of me.
FRANCIS
You’re not happy with me?
TOM
Sure. Like a hare! He raises his arm to scratch himself, and I’m afraid he’s going to throttle me. He turns around just to turn around, and I expect a punch in my belly. I saw a gas station across from the church. I’m going to fill the tank and take off.
FRANCIS
(approaching TOM, threatening) Just as I was starting to get attached to you!
TOM
We’re too close. We’re too close. I like being with you! I like being with you. Is that what you want to hear? Your cornfield landscape is beautiful! I love coyotes tearing apart meat. The Japanese have pr
etty little eyes and Sara is a delightful alcoholic!
FRANCIS grabs the rope and ties TOM’s wrists.
Now what are you doing? Is this your way of getting attached? Stupid. Stupid joke. Just kidding. Stupid joke. Stupid. Stupid.
FRANCIS
You hear the dog?
TOM
Yes, I hear your goddamn dog!
FRANCIS
It’s suppertime.
FRANCIS knocks TOM to his knees with one swift kick.
+ TABLEAU FIVE +
Day 3. Evening.
AGATHA is ironing.
AGATHA
Tom! Suppertime! This is the second time I’ve called you!
FRANCIS
(wearing only his jeans) Maybe he’s not hungry.
AGATHA
He hasn’t eaten all day. He doesn’t like my cooking. I can tell. (calling) Tom? (to FRANCIS) What’s with the bandages on his wrists?
FRANCIS
We went to see the doctor.
AGATHA
Why the doctor?
FRANCIS
He hurt himself.
AGATHA
How?
FRANCIS
On the manure conveyor.
AGATHA
Both wrists?
FRANCIS
He tried to pick something up. What are you getting at? Do you want him to leave? Is that it?
AGATHA
He can’t drive with his wrists in that state.
FRANCIS
I can drive him home, if you want.
AGATHA
No one asked you to drive him home.
FRANCIS
He’s really good with the cows.
AGATHA
(smiling) I thought so.
Beat.
Yesterday morning, when I opened the door to your bedroom: two little boys in two little beds!
FRANCIS
That made you happy, right?
AGATHA
He fusses with his hair a lot. Always looking at himself in the mirror, too. I even caught him looking at his bum. You look at your bum?
FRANCIS
No need. It’s too perfect.
They laugh.
In the bedroom, TOM takes off his work shirt, keeps on his jeans. He puts on an undershirt. Bandages his wrists.
TOM
The house should be full of people. That’s how it is in the movies when someone dies. People smoking, moving in slow motion, whispering; then there’s always someone who gets the giggles and says: “Sorry, it’s the stress.”
AGATHA
(still laughing) “It’s the stress.” (calling) Tom, come eat!
TOM
The phone never rings. No TV in the background. Just the milk tanker that comes to the barn to pick up the daily quota. The driver’s name is Jeff. “Hi, Jeff. Bye, Jeff!”
Tom at the Farm Page 2
